Polarity
by little majesty
Summary: The war is finally over, but people are broken. Two people are left to pick up the pieces of their lives but realise that they need each other to put the pieces back together.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: All recognisable characters belong to J.K. Rowling, as well as a smattering of magical places, objects and ideas. All others (what little remains) and the plot belong to me.

* * *

Dizzying. Colours are fusing into one another and the faces appear all the same to her—one look, one scream—the stench of sweat and terror clings thickly in the air and it suffocates her endlessly. With maddening slowness it seems that she falls to her knees unable to continue, incapable of drawing from the strength that she knows she has.

Or thought she had...

She is surrounded by death. No amount of training could have prepared her for this. Training taught her how to kill, but they never told her how she would have to deal with the knowledge that she had taken someone's life. The guilt is immense and she wants to vomit from the invisible weight. She killed so many that she has already lost count. It is easy at first. _Bring them to their knees first,_ they told her. _Bring them to their knees and when they think that you will show them mercy, kill them._

Although she did not understand at first, she knew that her protestations would go unheeded. Harry would not have wanted this but with his untimely death, came a desperation and the need to taste blood, to see it flow as if in some sort of morbid offering to the gods that will hopefully reward them with justice that they had already sought for themselves. And now, in the middle of battle, a meadow some miles away from the quaint town she spent so many Saturdays as a girl growing up in a magical world, Hermione Granger is on her knees begging for some sort of release. Anything that will ease the emotional pain of being where she is... alone in the midst of chaos, blood on her hands and robes, the memory of all that she did and seen firmly etched in a corner of her mind.

It is coming to an end. She can hear the voices of triumph, small and almost unintelligible as her mind unconsciously seeks to block everything out. Suddenly, she feels someone grab her arm.

Ron.

She almost screams when she takes in the sight of him. Blood smeared across his cheek, robes torn in several places, but it is his eyes... pupils dilated, darting around in a mad fashion, almost delirious in their motion as they scan the remnants of what would later be known as the Battle on Verdant Meadow. The last battle of the war...

"It's over," he tells her, his voice hoarse yet tinged with excitement. "It's over, Hermione..."

Is it really?

She can feel herself being dragged to her feet and then mindlessly through the rubble by a Ronald Weasley who is half out of his mind.

"Let's go home, Hermione," he keeps repeating, though more to himself than to her. "Mum's waiting for us. She'd want to know how everything went..."

"But Ron..."

She stops in mid-speech. Perhaps it will not do much good to remind her friend that his mother has been dead for three years. This is the worse he has gotten and it scares her.

Have they all gone mad?

"I told her we'd win, though. I was so sure. I was so sure we'd win and we did win. She'd be so proud." He stops tugging on her arm. It is then that she sees the destruction that has happened. It is a wasteland... Bodies litter the ground as if they fell from the heavens, broken and bloody, the air smells of death and, for some unknown reason, of smoke as well.

How can one find victory in such a place?

"She would, wouldn't she, Hermione? She'd be so proud of us..." He holds her hand tightly, either squeezing the life out of her or infusing her with it, she is not entirely sure.

All she can think of is that they are monsters... They turned into monsters. Only monsters are capable of this this, this much devastation.

How ironic. How utterly ironic to turn into what you think you are fighting against.

"Right, Hermione? Tell me she would be proud."

Hermione does not realise that she has begun crying until she feels a cool breeze blow against the wetness on her cheek.

"Very proud," she whispers and her voice almost cracks.

Hours later, hours after leaving Ron and walking aimlessly though decidedly away from all the bloodshed and gore, Hermione stops beside a large tree whose branches provide a canopy from the dwindling sunlight. Then and only then, as she drops once again to her knees did she allow herself to truly cry.

Each sob feels like it is being ripped out of her; emotions battle their way out, tumbling over one another in the process and it all but chokes her.

This is not how things are supposed to be. But then... things rarely turn out the way one expects.

Right?

Leaning against the massive tree, her knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around herself and her face tilted toward the setting sun, Hermione Granger wonders if things will ever be the same again. Will she ever be the same again?

It sounds stupid but she wonders if she would still find joy in watching children play along the sidewalk by her home, or will the war have tainted her completely making her cynical and jaded. She wonders if tomorrow she will still like having oatmeal for breakfast or if she will enjoy having breakfast at all. She wonders if the rain will feel different to her, if it will feel cooler to the touch. She thinks about all these things and cries for these thoughts.

She is mourning—mourning for things she does not now understand but knows that she will eventually have to face.

"What is this?" she asks the tree softly. "Heaven? Hell?"

Though she does not expect an answer, she receives one.

"If you're going to kill me, Granger... you might as well get it done. I'm in too much pain to wait for you to make... up your... bleeding mind."

She gasps.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

I've gone and started another one! I know. I'll never learn. But this practically begged to be written and I... had no choice in the matter!

I have to admit, though, that I can't wait to write more of this because it will definitely be darker than what I usually write. I like the complexities that the war can bring and how it can change the characters and their perspectives.

This is just a prologue. Later chapters will be longer.

Do review! Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter One: Do you believe in God now?

Disclaimer: All recognisable characters belong to J.K. Rowling, as well as a smattering of magical places, objects and ideas. All others (what little remains) and the plot belong to me.

* * *

There are no thoughts during times like these. There are only actions and among these expressions, looks, gestures seem to be the most telling. Hermione simply stares at the form some feet away from her, mesmerised by its presence.

His blond hair is tainted with the red of his blood and she gawks in a morbid sort of fascination because she has never before seen his hair in less than pristine condition. But she remembers that she has not seen him in quite a long time and decides that people change whether they like it or not. Perhaps this lack of hair products is merely a part of his new life. He is slumped against another tree some feet away from her, and she cannot help but think that he looks forlornly broken, like a doll that has lost its charm and is discarded to a dusty corner underneath a bed. Even from where she is, Hermione can smell the blood and sweat on him and she almost blanches. The reaction seems odd now when she should already be accustomed to the smell.

His grey eyes regard her coolly, and she notices how they seem to analyse her, calculating her next move and anticipating what she will say. She disappoints him, though, for she does not know what to do and is even more at a loss as to what to say.

"I haven't got all day," he tells her, finally breaking the uneasy and unmistakably tense atmosphere. The way he speaks to her also tells Hermione that he is in much pain.

That is not surprising, however Hermione remembers how he always seemed to needlessly exaggerate nonexistent pain when they were students in Hogwarts and now it is the complete opposite. She is slightly confused by this foreign part of his personality, the almost subdued quality with which he bears his injuries and how he seems rather... regal despite his current condition.

She is almost envious.

"Aren't you—"

"Supposed to be dead?" he finishes for her, his tone even and somewhat blasé. "What can I say? Things... don't turn out the way you expect."

Hermione almost laughs at that, but she immediately realises that the unexpected humour she found in what he said will not be shared. Instead she coughs and he raises an elegant eyebrow at her reaction.

"I was going to say..." She looks at him carefully, before continuing. "Aren't you going to at least threaten me or something? Call me Mudblood, stick your and spit on my face? Where has the great Draco Malfoy gone?"

She does not mean to be so caustic with her words and even she is surprised at how they just tumble out of her mouth like a gentle stream of water. As if it is but natural and nothing else is to be expected of her.

There is such hatred in his eyes when he looks at her that she cannot help but look away. But only for a moment. He is still oddly compelling to her and her gaze unrelentingly settles on him once again. She hates herself for this. She labels it quickly as a weakness and feels disgusted with herself.

He still does not talk but his eyes tell her everything. There is pain there, of course, but there is also the betrayal of a promise of power and the loss of purpose. She sees that he no longer has anything to live for and now he is just welcoming death.

Death.

The faces of all she killed flashes before her eyes and her breath catches in her throat. She knows that she will never be able to escape them and they will haunt her for the rest of her days and torture her in revenge for what she did. They did not welcome death. She did not give them a choice.

A murderer. She is a murderer and no amount of repentance will change that. They won the battle but the price they paid was far more than they expected. Or does it look that way only to Hermione?

Perhaps...

"Just _fucking_ kill me, Granger! Point your stupid wand and say the _fucking _words!" The anger spreads to the rest of his face as his mouth forms into that familiar sneer, his pale cheeks now suffused with red and beads of agonised sweat form on his upper brow and lip.

To want death...

"I... I can't..." she confesses silently and ashamed. Even her voice seems to cower and tremble in fear of the truth.

"You _can't_?" His tone is derisive yet appalled at the same time and she knows that he understands it now.

They told her, time and time again. _Do not show fear. _They told her until her ears hurt and she wanted nothing more than go back to the way things were before they were forced to grow up and fight for their lives. Then again... they were always fighting for their lives. Ever since their three seemingly insignificant lives intertwined there was always something to fight for or against.

Now, there is nothing left. Her one last best friend is going home to a mother who has been dead for three years.

Somehow, she thought victory would be sweeter than this.

She watches in wonder as the anger drains from his face and all that is left is tiredness and defeat. His pink tongue darts out and wets his chapped lips and she finds herself waiting to see if he will do it again. He does, but this time he sees her watching him and she flushes in embarrassment.

"I saw you out there," he says and his eyes flutter close. "I was watching you... you know. I didn't think you could do it."

She did not either but she keeps this thought to herself.

"I like your style," he continues, each breath he takes is alarmingly deep. "Do you know that you smirk before you kill them? As if you enjoy it." He opens his eyes then and looks at her directly. The grey irises are devoid of expression. "Did you?"

The bile is bitter when she feels it rise to her throat. She breaks eye contact with him and looks down at her hands. Covered with blood. The blood of men and women. The blood of Purebloods. There is such power in her hands, she has always known that but now she is aware of exactly how powerful they are.

"You look scared, Granger."

She glances up at his amused tone, surprised and apprehensive at the same time.

"I'm not used to seeing you scared," he needlessly explains and somehow it feels like they are having a conversation. It feels like they are old friends, catching up on each other's lives and making tiny comments about how different the other has become.

She is even more confused by this feeling that she does not think of the next words that come out of her mouth. "I'm used to seeing you defeated."

And with that, it appears that they are back to being enemies.

"Mudblood," he says, but the insult falls flat as he winces from his injuries.

She winces as well but is unsure as to whether it is in sympathy toward him or the natural reaction to hearing and hurtful word.

"Where's your wand?"

He sighs before he answers. "Broken. The wonderful Professor Snape did a rather good job of shattering it into a million pieces."

"He didn't kill you." She is unable to contain the wonder in her voice as she says this.

She thinks he chuckled for a moment but sound is strangled and she cannot be certain.

"Of course he did. He broke my bloody wand... in the middle of a fucking battle." He lets out a soft gasp. "He left me for dead but he didn't want to see me die."

Hermione does not know what to think now. Perhaps it is not as merciful as it first sounded. Perhaps it is crueler a punishment.

"So please, why don't you do the honours and finish this."

He does not demand it of her anymore. But it is a request and she watches his lips move as he says it.

A shiver runs down her spine. She knows that she should do just as he told her. _Leave no one alive_, they told her time and time again. It will be easier; to start anew without the fear that someone will plot against them. But she cannot. She cannot even move to touch her wand. It is repulsive to her now.

"I told you before that I couldn't. I still can't." It feels like her patience is being tested, but she knows that it is not her patience being tested.

"Had your fill of death, Granger? What's one more?"

What is one more?

The first one she killed was one too many. She cried when it happened and Ginny was forced to Apparate them both away from the battle. The younger girl did not understand why she cried so, especially when Hermione had just killed the man who murdered his parents. _You have revenge_, she told her, as if she should be proud. She nodded, thinking that it would be easier to just agree than to create an argument. She did not want to have another enemy. One enemy is one too many. After that, it became easier. She just needed to do it quickly. Say the words and run in the opposite direction. No time to make them kneel down before you. No time to look into their eyes and see into what soul is left of them. No time to think about wrong or right. No time to make decisions.

Just do it. Just kill them. Even if it means that a split second would end in a lifetime of regret.

It begins to drizzle; small droplets of water occasionally pass by the barrier of leaves provided by the tree. She wonders if the rest of her life she will feel the way she does now. Lost. Broken. Empty.

"All right then," he says. She can hear him shifting a little and the soft gasp that passes between his lips tell of clear discomfort. "Just think about it as a good deed. A mercy killing of sorts. You'll be doing me a favour."

"Do you really want to die?"

He snorts at her question. She supposes it is rather stupid. The answer is painfully obvious.

"Why?" she asks.

"There is nothing else left. I... don't want this life anymore."

The answer is lacking to her and she shakes her head. With a deep breath, she places her hands on the tree as she gets to her feet. Her eyes are on his as she steps out from underneath the canopy of the tree and into the rain. She raises her hands before her in a sort of pleading gesture, letting the rain wash away the bloodstains that dried and blemished her skin.

"What are you doing?"

She doesn't understand his question. "Only God can show mercy."

"Do you believe in God now?" She can see that he is perplexed by her answer. This notion of God and religion... it confuses her as well.

She needs someone who will forgive her. God forgives all sinners, does he not?

"Not yet. But I want to," she tells him before she tugs on the sleeve of her robes. It tears off on the fourth pull and she walks toward him.

She is on her knees once again beside him and his eyes go wide when she wipes the damp cloth against his face. It is too intimate an action between enemies but he begins to relax and she continues her ministrations.

"Tell me where it hurts."

"Everywhere," he admits and his eyes close. "But leave me be. I wish to die even if it has to be slow and painful."

She stares at him then and though his words engulf her, she knows that she cannot let him die. With her wand, she quickly assesses his injuries. The fact that he is still alive makes her shudder and feel even more hard-pressed to heal him as soon as possible.

"Let me die," he tells her, almost begging.

She shakes her head.

For once she is thankful for the training she received. She helped the medics more than a few times when the injured list ran longer than they could accommodate. She enjoyed it to some extent and once or twice considered pursuing it should the battle ever end. Those were the days when she foolishly thought that they could go back to the way things were.

"We need to go. I cannot heal you here."

His eyes snap open. "_Leave me._"

Again, she is deaf to his demands and gently, she takes him into his arms. A loud pop echoes through the forest and once again the leafy shelter is silent.

* * *

He wants to fight her, wishing that his limbs do not feel as useless as they do and that his energy is not dangerously near to vanishing completely. When next he opens his eyes, he is surprised to see that they are inside a quaint room, the walls bright and cheery with its yellow and white flowers. He feels himself being settled into a narrow bed and sinking into thick quilts—he does not think that there is anything more soothing. His eyelids are too heavy to take in the rest of his surroundings but he knows that the window in front of his bed is facing west as the rays of the setting sun still seep beneath his lowering gaze. And his eyes close completely.

"Wake up!" He can hear her say but he cannot open his mouth to answer her.

The Mudblood.

He does not understand how this happened. He remembers running in every direction like the wind in some ways. He remembers screaming curses on after the after and watching as people doubled-over with the pain that he inflicted.

He remembers watching her from afar yet near enough to hear her. He remembers thinking that they are the same. Quick with what they have to do, always running away when it is finished. He remembers wanting to run into her just to see what she would do.

He remembers the first moment he realised that things were not going to go the way they were supposed to. He remembers the moment the truth sank in and knowing that it was all going to end. He remembers making a decision. He remembers pointing his wand, saying the curse. He remembers running far away.

He remembers hearing the shouts that announced the death of the Dark Lord. He remembers tripping over a dead body as he ran even farther.

He remembers Snape, remembers the way he looked at him pity and how much he hated his former professor for that. He remembers the moment he felt his wand shatter in his hands and how he felt his defences break as well. He remembers watching the black cloak billow in the wind as Snape walked away from him.

He remembers the first curse to hit his back, the second and the third. He remembers preparing himself for death and wondering about the choices he made. He remembers his father standing in front of him, remembers the older Malfoy trying to shield him from their hatred. _Get out of here_, he told him. He always tells him to go away, to leave, even as a child but he knows that he is just being protected. He remembers watching his father fall and the green light that caused it.

He remembers mustering enough strength to Apparate away from the battle, remembers thinking that it is better to die in solitude and not give those who killed his father the satisfaction of killing the last Malfoy.

He remembers seeing her and thinking that the world has turned upside down when she should be in such a position to decide his fate. He remembers wishing for death, knowing that even if his life should be spared... there would be nothing to go back to.

He remembers all these things but he does not understand.

"Hermione?" he hears someone call out. It is a woman's voice, soft and motherly.

The door swings open and he wishes that he had enough to turn his head and see who it is. He smells roses, though.

"Oh my, Hermione! Are you all right?" The worry in the woman's voice is so thick and he can feel it in his bones. "And who's this? He isn't dead is he?"

He wants to answer for himself but his frail body tells him otherwise.

"No, no, gram. He's... a friend and he _will _die if I don't get supplies quick." He stiffens when she calls him friend. "Please look after him, all right? I'll be back as soon as I can manage."

"All right, sweetheart. But later you're going to have to tell me everything."

He does not hear her reply to the request, but assumes she did so before Apparating out of the room.

A scraping against the floor tells him that a chair of some sort of being dragged from across the room and toward the side of the bed.

"Sweet Jesus," she mutters and he can feel fingers brush his hair away from his forehead. "Your mother must be worried to death about you."

That is impossible. His mother is already dead.

"But I wonder why Hermione brought you here. She's never brought anyone here before."

He wonders about that, too. But the pain that burns in his chest is too intense and the best way to ignore it would be to fall into unconsciousness.

And that is exactly what he does.

He does not know how much time has passed when he finally opens his eyes. It is dark outside, but the black sky sparkles with stars. The pains are gone and he can breathe easily now without the horrible gasping. He shifts a little and realises that he is underneath the warm covers of the bed and that he has not felt such comfort in a very long time.

"I don't think I can do this," he whispers into the darkness.

It is only when she begins to stir from her slumber does he notice that Hermione is sitting in a chair beside the bed, her head resting on the mattress beside his hip. She does not smell of war now but of vanilla and lavender, gently reminding him of spring mornings.

She yawns sleepily and rubs her eyes before looking up at him. An uncertain smile graces her lips. He does not return it and her smile quickly falters.

"Is everything all right? Are you feeling better?"

Is she _fucking _kidding?

He does not answer her and instead, he turns his head away from her.

A sigh, the sound of the chair being moved again and suddenly the room is flooded in a soft orange glow by a couple of candles on the bedside table.

"Are you hungry?" she tries again, as if questions are like shoes that she can try on until one of them fits. "Do you want anything?"

His knuckles are white as his hands grip the white sheets that protect him from the cold. "I want to die. You should have left me there to die."

She shakes her head. It seems they will never agree on anything. They have changed so much yet they are still on opposite sides.

"No one wants to die," she whispers and he cannot decide if it is because she does not want to wake up her grandmother or because she does not entirely believe the words coming out of her mouth. "That's what this war was about, right? The struggle to survive..."

He cannot help but think that she is an ignorant chit fighting in a completely different war.

"It was a fight for power."

"It might have been that way at first but... in the end we were all fighting for our own lives and not for any sort of ideology—as misguided as it may be."

He ignores the veiled insult of his beliefs. Instead he says, "I don't want to fight anymore."

She sighs, perhaps a sign of admonition. Running her fingers through her hair, he watches as the curly strands look almost golden in the glow of the candlelight. Then again... everything looks almost golden when in the right light.

"What does it feel like?" he asks suddenly, without thinking. He begins to sit up and when she notices this she helps him, fixing the pillows behind him to allow him to rest his back against them. It is then that he realises that he is, in fact, bare with the sole exception of the boxers that he was wearing earlier.

"I'll get you something more decent to wear in the morning." As she tells him this, he can swear that there is just the hint of a blush on her cheeks. He cannot be completely sure. The lighting is right awful.

But not even the half-nakedness will deter him from getting the answers he wants. "What does it feel like?" he asks again.

"What?"

"Winning," he clarifies for her. "What does winning feel like?"

A surprised look washes over her face. It is apparent that she has not given it any thought as of yet. She runs her fingers through her again and winces when they come across a snag. She is stalling for time, he thinks, but she is not very good at it.

"I don't know actually... I haven't really thought it," she confesses to him, confirming his suspicions.

He is, needless to say, disappointed in her answer. He wants to know it is like but at the same time he is relieved. Perhaps victory is not everything he imagines it to be. Perhaps, hopefully, it is nothing at all.

"Why do you want to die?"

Hermione Granger was always a smart girl. To take attention away from her inability to articulate much anything at the moment, she puts the focus on him. He never liked her being overly intelligent.

"Life is supposed to have meaning, Granger. It doesn't really matter how big or small the meaning is so long as it's there. A reason to get up each morning and face the rest of the world, a sense of purpose... something to justify this existence." He looks into her eyes, wanting her to think that he knows all her secrets. It is only fair. He feels stripped bare and the pretensions that he once held dear are nowhere to be found. "When all of that has been taken from you... what else is left? My life is no longer worth living."

A flash of lightning streaks across the sky and a crash of thunder is heard before the downpour comes.

He closes his eyes and listens to the rain as it beats against the roof. It comforts him somehow with memories of burrowing beneath his parents' blankets and braving one clap of thunder after the other, all the time knowing that nothing will ever harm him.

His heart twists painfully at the memories; the pain is worse than any of his earlier injuries could produce. The knowledge that there is no spell or potion that is capable of healing this makes it worse.

"What happens now?"

He does not mean to sound so lost, but it is obvious in his voice. He wants to stick something sharp in his eyes or, a lovelier thought, stick something into the vein throbbing steadily in his neck.

"To you?"

"To everyone, but..." He shrugs. "I suppose I would be a good place to start."

She mimics his action and shrugs in return. He thinks that the world would be a better place if everyone would be like that. I shall take away your freedom and your perhaps steal your breakfast—would that be amenable to you? Shrug.

"I'm not going to turn you in, if that's what you think..."

That is exactly what he has been thinking, but he keeps that fact to himself. But then it has occurred to him that it will defeat the whole purpose of having saved him.

"That would defeat the whole point of saving your life. Because they'll..." she stops short at this.

He knows what they will do. Those idiots are maniacal enough to want to torture him before even consider killing him.

"When I went to Hogwarts for medical supplies, there was such a commotion that I didn't understand what was happening. All I could decipher from what everyone was saying was that there were a handful of Death Eaters that were able to escape."

He raises an eyebrow at the news. The action is not intended to alarm her, but it evident that it does. He is merely interested. The reaction is amusing, nevertheless.

"Are they sure?"

"I... I suppose..."

He knows that there is something else that she is not telling him. He can see it in her eyes. It is not obvious, but he was always good at this sort of thing. This is what he does best. He reads people, finds their insecurities and uses what he finds against them. It is a most prized skill.

"Tell me what it is you want to say."

Again, she is alarmed. But she answers him anyway, "Snape. He... he's looking for you. He knows that you didn't die in the battle today."

Bloody bastard. What does he want now?

He feels overwhelmed. For the first time that day everything finally begins to pierce through reality. It is not just a dream. His father is really dead. Hermione Granger thinks she saved his life. Snape is a fucking arsehole.

He glares at the woman before him. There is just no else to take his anger out on.

"You're fucking twisted, you know that Granger? I mean... why the bloody hell did you have to go and save my goddamn life? Because you think that one life saved will make up for all those that you've taken away?" His saliva accidentally sprays against his chest but he does not bother wiping it. Or the tears that seem to have fallen from his eyes. "Well, that... _that_ is amazingly stupid! Nothing will ever be right again! Don't you get it? You don't get to turn yourself into some pathetic little saint and think that history is going to change itself! All the people you murdered aren't going to come back to life and forgive you, okay? And I... _I_ don't get a second chance at this..."

He does not fight her when she takes him into her arms. The hot tears on his neck tell him that she is crying, too. He still wants to hurt her, though. Perhaps... perhaps if he hurt her enough she will want to kill him.

"I was the one who killed your mangy cat, you know. Back in seventh year..."

He thinks it is a pretty good lie.

"You did not!" She laughs and he quickly decides that it is the worse he has ever told. "Fang accidentally sat on him..."

He is not interested enough to ask.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Hello! So here's the first actual chapter of Polarity. There's really not much to say as the story has just begun to develop, but I have to say that I'm enjoying writing this. I find that I have to inject some humour into the text from time to time, though. It seems that I'm incapable of writing something that is pure angst and darkness. Decidedly unfortunate? That remains to be seen. So until next time!

Thanks for reading! Please review!


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